Til My Dying Day
by Soquilii
Summary: Leverage, Int'l has operated for five years with the intel left the team by Nate. Only a matter of time before luck and the team's incredible run of successes run out. All good things…


Consciousness slowly returned, albeit with the strength of a 15-watt light bulb. Confusion followed, accompanied by a great deal of pain, but within minutes the strong sense of duty and protective instincts he had cultured for so long kicked in. Eliot, staring up at warehouse rafters, shivering from both the cold concrete floor beneath him and a wintry blast from a broken window nearby, assessed his situation.

The pain itself told him the first part of the story. Between his body and the floor were shards of glass digging into his back. His outstretched fingers found several more, most of them coated in a sticky, coppery-smelling substance. He knew it was his own blood without picking one up.

Chapter two of the story worried him. Parker…Hardison…where were they? The small device embedded in his right ear was silent; not even static buzzed its annoying refrain. What the hell had happened? Try as he might, he couldn't mentally reconstruct anything before the world went dark.

Chapter three was obvious. He'd been shot. With one hand, he counted at least three cavities in his lower abdomen.

The last chapter of the story was what to do next. He couldn't keep lying here; he had to get up. His first effort was fruitless. Looking around for help wasn't something he normally did, but he did it now, then scoffed at his own idiocy. He had heard nothing but the wind whistling through the broken window. No footsteps, no talking; no sounds anyone within earshot would make. He was probably alone. Damned if he'd call out for help - he didn't know who might answer and he didn't want any more surprises - something like that had gotten him into more fixes than he could count.

He rested a while.

The glass shards poking his back were pissing him off. Eliot turned the anger inward, willing his muscles to move. He raised his head…then, groaning, came up on one elbow. Damn, felt like summiting Mount Everest. _Fuck!_ He paused to catch his breath. His hair fell over his face, dirty, bloodied hair that painted his cheeks like Braveheart ready for battle. He was gonna have to use that for inspiration if he was gonna do this. _Dammit, Hardison! Why won't you use the comm?! Didja forget how, you freakin' geek? Where the hell is Parker? _To be sure; twenty pounds of crazy in a five-pound bag; sharp as a razor blade, but small, delicate; she needed him. Well, not really. She was with Hardison now. They'd grown closer over the years; Hardison seemed to be the only person who understood her; who even cared to understand her, who was actually _able_ to understand her. They were together. Still, Hardison couldn't be counted on for much; he was a good fighter in a supporting role but he couldn't carry the whole play. Parker needed _him_, and _him_ was letting her down, just lying here.

_Damn!_

This wasn't working. He looked around for some sort of prop to hoist himself up. For the first time he noticed evidence of what must have been one hell of a fight: broken containers, punctured barrels, spent shells, not to mention glass everywhere, and three – no, four bodies. Blood spatters everywhere; sheer carnage. Various firearms scattered about, including an Uzi carbine, which must have been the weapon that took him down. The holes in his stomach were perfectly aligned; 9 millimeter width; a distinctive bullet from a distinctive weapon. _Gotta admit_, he thought to himself, _I was gettin' too cocky…past forty now…no match for these young kids with UZIs…_

He hated guns; always had.

Exactly what had transpired still eluded him. A con gone wrong, somebody blew their cover, something like that. It should matter, but it didn't. As more time passed he found himself not really caring what had happened. His only thoughts were of Hardison and Parker.

There, off to his right…a low crate…just right for a boost. He was gonna have to crawl about five feet. No problem. Launching himself on his journey, Eliot kept his goal in sight, single-mindedly concentrating on it to the exclusion of all else. Once this goal was attained he'd sweat the rest. Slowly, painfully, stopping for breath, he inched his way along, leaving a trail of blood, both old and new. Every so often he grayed out. He fought to keep from losing consciousness again. Gritty determination drove him on, that and his stubborn disposition, along with the bad attitude so often denounced by Nate and on occasion, Sophie. He hadn't thought of them much in the years since they left Leverage, Inc. He didn't want to think of them now; they distracted him. They were in his head, however, despite his efforts. _Nag, nag, nag._

Another foot gained, then another. Nausea wracked him; somehow that was worse than the pain. He didn't want to coat himself in that, so he controlled it. The last foot; the last inch. _About damn time. Now for the hard part._ He threw an arm over the crate and somehow hoisted himself to a sitting position. This brought a change in blood pressure and he grayed out again, but once up, he was more comfortable resting against it with no glass beneath his back. It made his breathing a bit easier. His butt would go to sleep before he was found, but that was of no consequence.

He sat, resting, staring into space. It was then he thought of his cell phone still in his pocket. _Asshole_, he said to himself, _you could have called 911 by now_… No good. After he managed to drag the phone from his pocket, he found a fourth bullet had scored it, grazing his thigh in the process. 'Shit!' he said, letting it drop to the floor.

By now, oddly, he discovered the pain had lessened. No more sharp pangs, no more dull throb. In fact, he felt pretty good. Maybe in a few minutes he could make it out of here.

The roar of an engine sounded through the broken window. Tires screeched, two doors slammed shut. _Shit._ The dead guys' friends were coming back. His last chance shot to hell. He wouldn't mind using a gun now if he had one…

Helpless, he could only wait.

Oddly familiar voices echoed down the crated corridors of the warehouse, moving closer, zeroing in on his position. Running footsteps, one heavier than the other. At the head of the corridor, opening onto an area where the warehouse was mostly empty and where he lay, the footsteps stopped abruptly. Eliot turned his head toward the sound.

He had felt pure joy only a few times in his life – united with a long lost lover; a well-performed con bringing justice to a select few; his favorite team scoring every touchdown – and he felt it again now.

Parker knelt down, cradling Eliot in her lap, her face carefully concealing her knowledge of his condition. Eliot held up a fist and Hardison's knuckles firmly met those of his old partner.

'What the hell happened?' Eliot asked in his graveled voice.

'Our cover was blown. You stayed behind so we could escape,' replied Parker. She tugged a scarf from around her neck and wiped his face with it.

'You ordered us out, remember? We got in over our heads, man - the guy we were dealing with was mobbed up. I mean, _mobbed. up. _You did it, Eliot,' affirmed Hardison, struggling to keep his eyes dry. 'You took 'em out. We came right back for you after the shooting stopped. I don't think anybody got out...' Hardison started to say 'alive' and choked the word off.

If Eliot noticed anything, he gave no indication. 'My earbud…didn't hear anything from you guys…'

Hardison checked Eliot's right ear, where he normally wore the small device. 'Gone, man. That's why. Probably crunched on the floor somewhere.'

_'Fuck.'_

'Aw, no sweat. I'll make you another one. Listen, do you want us to take you to the hospital?' This was an inside joke to make Eliot feel better; Hardison knew damned well Eliot wouldn't be caught dead within a mile of a hospital. Ironically, that was what was happening.

'Hell, no. I'll hire a nurse like always. Maybe a brunette...' Eliot suddenly coughed; blood ran down his chin. The truth was obvious to all of them. 'Damn. I promised Sophie I'd take care of ya'll...'

'Who's sayin' you didn't, dude?'

'Yeah,' said Parker, 'you kept your word.'

Eliot's voice came softer. 'Listen, guys … you gotta ... close up shop, or else … get you a small army. A single hitter … ain't gonna cut it anymore.'

'You prob'ly right, dude. We're gettin' too big, too well-known...to all the _wrong people_.' Hardison glanced up at Parker; her expressive face indicated her ambivalence. Hardison could read it in her face: Parker didn't want to quit.

Eliot, in his last role as protector, made the decision for both of them. 'That's just it. That's why you gotta shut it down, Hardison. Parker, you must have enough money by now to bathe in singles. Shut it _down_.'

'You got it, man.'

'_I mean it. Lock it up!_ Sell Lucille. Ya'll won't need her anymore. You two go find someplace ... peaceful, with ... a nice view…'

'We will…I promise…_we both_...promise, Eliot.' Hardison shot Parker a significant look. It was ending. Hell, it was already over. Reluctantly, she nodded in agreement.

Eliot didn't hear Hardison. He had gone ahead to find someplace peaceful, with a nice view.

The End


End file.
